


what he would have wanted

by jellijeans



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Dimidue Week 2019, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Spoilers for blue lions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 11:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellijeans/pseuds/jellijeans
Summary: Dimitri’s mouth is barely open before he breaks, sobbing into Dedue’s shoulder like a child, fingers tightening around the fabric of the larger man’s shirt until he can almost feel Dedue’s back shifting against his fingertips. He feels like a child again—vulnerable, fragile, everything he’s tried to push himself out of being for the past nine years—but yet again, Dedue is with him, shielding him from the rain, from harm, from everything that has tried to hurt him.“You shouldn’t follow me,” Dimitri whispers, voice aching, and Dedue shakes his head, pulling Dimitri a little tighter.“I have nothing left in life but to follow you, Dimitri.”And Dimitri finds himself crying harder, and Dedue merely holds him, embraces him like he’ll die if he lets go, shielding from him from the rain and from the demons that come with it.





	what he would have wanted

Dimitri wants to _ throw up. _

No one comes near him for longer than a moment; he doesn’t blame them, not with the way he’s been acting. Even Felix, stopping by to mourn his father, doesn’t regard him, dropping a small bouquet on his father’s grave and pretending he’s not crying, pretending he’s not upset about it all.

Dimitri can’t blame him. It’s what he wanted to do nine years ago, too.

And yet—and yet just sitting in front of the makeshift grave makes him want to die, makes every inch of his skin burn like hellfire, makes Rodrigue yet another person he wishes he could have saved—it’s not a revenge quest any longer, he tells himself, and Rodrigue is—_was_—right; they must reclaim Fhirdiad and bring an end to the suffering of Faerghus, and he will not let Rodrigue, will not let _ his _ father down like that—

—but he would be lying to himself if he said it didn’t hurt.

And _ oh_, does it hurt.

Everything hurts.

Not just his wounds from the sting of war, but his throat from choking back sobs, his hands from the weapons they now hold instead of the friends’ hands they once held in turn, his mind from the taunting voices of everyone he’s lost—everything hurts, nothing will go back to the way it once was.

He’s spent so long wishing that it would that he’s certain it won’t.

Rodrigue told his father that he would see Dimitri become a respectable man, guide him off of the wrong path if he wasn’t; and now Rodrigue is dead, and what has he become? A murderer? A rat, killing his fellow vermin and pretending he isn’t one himself?

His father would not want to see him like this.

The professor would not want to see him like this.

His classmates would not want to see him like this, and yet this is all they have seen him as for five years, for the four months following, for maybe even longer than he would like to admit—

—what’s the point in killing Edelgard if all he’s really doing is killing himself?

And he sobs, because Rodrigue would not want to see him like this, because his _ father _ would not want to see him like this, because he has grown into the man he always swore not to be. The cold and the rain bite at his face, unarmored, like the rest of him; the mess that his right eye has become burns, the ends of winter seemingly determined to tear what’s left of it out—but it’s not worth going back inside, not worth rejoining the others. The pain he feels is surely nothing compared to the pain of those who were not so lucky as to survive, although certainly more deserving of it.

It’s his fault. He should have returned to Fhirdiad sooner, should have prevented all of the suffering his people have gone through over the past five years. He doesn’t expect pity; certainly, he has offered none to anyone since he was a student, and it would be unjust of him to reach out a hand and ask for help from the same people he’s merely used as tools since they reunited.

He can’t help but think of Felix, hurting far more than him and yet only able to drop a bouquet and do some mimicry of a prayer, because Felix has tasks to handle. He must inherit House Fraldarius, continue leading the army in the places where Dimitri has faltered, must finish all the things Rodrigue left undone—and then his mind jumps to Ashe, the first student victim of this war, forced to kill his own father for the sake of the same church that claimed the life of his brother, who stuck with defending the church anyway. He thinks of everyone in the army, forced to do duties and pick up on responsibilities that were never theirs in the first place, only because he has ignored his in his silly quest for revenge.

Everyone has been affected by this war. Everyone is hurting.

He has only exacerbated that.

And the nausea tugs at his throat again, and he hunches bag over, sobs still wracking his frame, and he only sits back up when he feels a large hand close gently close around his shoulder, the presence of a familiar figure behind him.

“Your Highness?”

The voice is warm and concerned, almost the same as it was five years ago, and Dimitri has to fight the urge to push Dedue’s hand off his shoulder, tell Dedue he doesn’t deserve his sympathy, but he doesn’t. Instead, he clears his throat, tries haphazardly to wipe the tears from his face, and then sits up a little straighter, hoping his voice will clear.

“Yes?”

(Dimitri curses himself. His voice is anything but clear, anything but steady, and his hands are the same way, shaking in his lap.)

“Are you alright, Your Highness?”

And then he turns around, feeling Dedue’s hand trace its way across his back only to find itself resting on his other shoulder, and all he can see is the concern bright in Dedue’s eyes, shadowing myriad indecipherable emotions that Dimitri once prized himself on being able to read.

Dimitri closes his visible eye, tries to just focus on the feeling of Dedue’s hand against him, and exhales quietly. He doesn’t respond.

“Lord Rodrigue would not want you to mourn forever,” Dedue says quietly. Dimitri nods, and he can feel his lips tightening against each other, the lump in his throat pushing its way upwards and threatening to break out into another sob. “He is proud of the man you are—the man you can become. You are well on your way.”

“I ignored him,” Dimitri protests, “and commanded a march to the empire against his own wishes. I would have left my own people to become nothing more than Cornelia’s hostages, simply in my own quest for revenge.”

“That is not who you are.”

“It is who I have always been,” he says softly, weakly, and something in Dedue breaks as he looks away yet again; his eyes go soft, blue graying with tears, and Dimitri almost expects him to walk away, pity him from a distance like everyone else has decided to do. Instead, he feels Dedue pull him into a warm embrace, shielding him from the rain. Dimitri only realizes that Dedue isn’t wearing his armor when he finds himself sinking into his embrace, burying his head in the crook of Dedue’s neck and only crying a little bit when Dedue’s hand finds its way to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling themselves in Dimitri’s hair.

“That is not who you are,” he repeats softly, and as much as his sorrow pains him, Dimitri finds himself relaxing into Dedue’s embrace, trying to hold back more tears. Dedue’s other hand rests on his back, fingertips tracing small, comforting circles between his shoulderblades. “You are reclaiming the capital. Afterwards, we march to Enbarr and end the tyranny that has plagued us for so long.”

“I will kill her,” Dimitri says, more to himself than to Dedue, and he winces at the way his voice falters. He feels Dedue exhale against him.

“Will you?” Dedue asks quietly. Dimitri chokes back a sob, buries his head further into Dedue’s neck, and Dedue’s hand shifts upwards, gently running through Dimitri’s hair, the same way it once did five years ago.

“I don’t know,” Dimitri whispers, and then slumps. “I...don’t know. I feel so weak for crying, when everyone else is being so strong.”

“You are not weak, Your Highness,” Dedue says. “You are allowed to cry. You are no less of a leader for it.”

“I—”

—and Dimitri’s mouth is barely open before he breaks, sobbing into Dedue’s shoulder like a child, fingers tightening around the fabric of the larger man’s shirt until he can almost feel Dedue’s back shifting against his fingertips. He feels like a child again—vulnerable, fragile, everything he’s tried to push himself out of being for the past nine years—but yet again, Dedue is with him, shielding him from the rain, from harm, from everything that has tried to hurt him.

“No one is blaming you,” Dedue says quietly. “We cannot imagine the pain you have been through in the last five years, Your Highness. We will follow you without question, no matter what choices you may make. You are our leader, after all. You have been and always will be.”

“You shouldn’t follow me,” Dimitri whispers, voice aching, and Dedue shakes his head, pulling Dimitri a little tighter.

“I have nothing left in life but to follow you, Dimitri.”

And Dimitri finds himself crying harder, and Dedue merely holds him, embraces him like he’ll die if he lets go, shielding from him from the rain and from the demons that come with it.

———

“I’m still sorry you had to see me like that that day,” Dimitri says, returning with him to their campsite. Another trip to yet another makeshift graveyard after today’s battle, one that undoubtedly only reminds him of everything, every_one _ he has lost—Lord Rodrigue will not leave Dimitri’s mind that easily, he supposes, nor will his promise. The prince’s face is worn, still somewhat red from tears, but he looks more human than Dedue has seen him in ages, so he shrugs.

“Please don’t worry about it, Your Highness.”

Dimitri pauses, then, and reaches out a hand to Dedue’s back, lightly tracing down the top of his spine—

—Dedue resists the urge to shiver—

—before pulling his hand back, rubbing his fingers together with a frown.

“You’re soaked, Dedue.”

“It was raining, Your Highness.”

“Fair point,” he says with a laugh, and Dedue smiles, if only a little bit. Dimitri clears his throat and then looks away. “But...did you bring a change of clothes with you? You’ll get sick if you stay out in the cold in wet clothing. You know how Faerghus is in this time of year.”

Dedue pauses. “I do not believe that I did, Your Highness, but you should not—”

“To freeze during a campaign would be unacceptable,” Dimitri says, almost a laugh. “Come. Stay in my tent for a while, at least. It’s warmer than the others. At least until your clothes are dry,” he offers upon Dedue’s look of hesitation.

“I could not impose—”

“You are not imposing, Dedue. You are a trusted ally and friend. I would do the same for any other. Come.”

Dedue follows him into the tent, and he finds that Dimitri isn’t incorrect; it’s better constructed, less damp and certainly warmer than the other tents in the camp, although he’s certain that if Dimitri had had his way, his tent would have been given to someone else—perhaps, before today’s events, Lord Rodrigue. Dimitri finds a spare tunic and hands it to him before taking a seat on his bed.

“Please. I am the closest person to your height, so it would give me peace of mind if you would at least have something decently warm to wear while your own clothes dry off.”

“Are you sure, Your Highness?”

“That tunic is too large for me, anyway. Keep it, if you wish.”

Dedue opens his mouth to protest again but is immediately silenced, and then reaches to pull his own tunic off and hang it outside the tent, taking a moment to stretch his stiffened muscles as he does so. When he sets his arms down and opens his eyes, he’s surprised to find Dimitri watching him, brows furrowed.

“Your Highness?”

“I—Dedue, your—” Dimitri reaches out a hand towards him and then recoils as if Dedue had slapped it away, immediately gluing it to his side. “...I...where did all these scars come from?”

“I did not escape unscathed,” Dedue says quietly. “My fellow Duscur did rescue me, it is true, but I was still intended to die, and the battles after that were not kind. There were not the resources to treat my wounds effectively. It was the best we could do to prevent them from festering too badly.”

The prince’s eye drops, and Dedue finds himself only wanting to wrap his arms around him and merely _ hold _ him, but he banishes the thought quickly. Perhaps he could’ve, if five years ago, things had turned out differently—but the war has robbed more from the both of them than just untouched flesh.

He brushes that thought away, too, eyes falling to Dimitri’s exposed shoulders as he takes his own armor off, quickly followed by his tunic, until merely a thin undershirt remains.

“Your Highness, you are not...exactly scarless either. What...happened to you, while I was gone?”

Dimitri exhales. “I...have not been particularly careful over the past five years, my friend. My fighting has been reckless at best. Whether I lived or died has not been of concern to me, and my fighting has reflected that.”

He resists the urge to brush his finger along Dimitri’s cheekbone, along the underside of his eyepatch; he resists the urge to hold Dimitri close to him and apologize for every hit, every wound he could not, did not take for him over the last five years—but Dimitri must catch him thinking of this, because he raises his hand to his eye anyway, fingers tracing lightly over the fabric.

“...are you wondering about my eye, Dedue?”

He can’t bring himself to say yes, so he merely nods, returning to the silence he’s always been so comfortable in, always found it easier to stay in when things take a turn for the worse.

“I don’t know,” Dimitri says softly, fingers still resting on his eyepatch. “It must have been a thief, or another imperial soldier, or—or someone, I suppose. Not that I was doing particularly well when the professor found me, but...there were far worse periods, of which I cannot recall exactly. I didn’t care what happened to me. I lived to kill and for revenge, even against myself, and that was all.”

“Why?” Dedue asks, and the question barely escapes his throat, rasping as it forces its way past his teeth, unwilling to be said and yet being forced to anyway.

Instead of answering, Dimitri pauses, one eye tracing Dedue’s face for a moment; he reaches a hand up, wavering in midair for a second, before cupping the left side of Dedue’s jaw with it, just studying him—and then his thumb finds its way over the scar that mars Dedue’s lips and traces over it, hesitating over the portion of the divot that sits directly on his lip. Dimitri doesn’t meet his eyes.

“...I thought I had lost you, and the thought of that drove me mad.”

And Dedue swallows, suddenly hyper aware of Dimitri’s thumb still resting on his lip, of Dimitri’s look—guilt? Bashfulness, maybe? He’s not sure he can distinguish it, not sure he _ wants _ to—and of the fact that he is _ shirtless_, in the same room as _ Dimitri_, about to wear _ Dimitri’s shirt _ to bed, and his throat is dry, and he doesn’t know how to process this information, that Dimitri could barely live without him, and even less sure of how to process the fact that he’s not sure he could live without Dimitri, either.

———

They’re more intimate after that, more connected; in a sense, neither of them feel like they have anything to hide from the other anymore.

They’ve died for each other already; once, twice, countless times—what else is there to separate them?

Dedue finds his way into Dimitri’s quarters when they’re back at the monastery in between fights, curious to know as to how the prince is doing. He had been absent from the day’s meeting, unusual for him, especially in his more recovered state—and he had heard the monks whispering, quiet debates of whether or not the prince would tolerate Manuela or Mercedes in his quarters in the state he was in, and had made up his mind to go see Dimitri as soon as the day’s tasks were done.

And so he had finished gardening, had led a brief training session with some of the other soldiers, and then had found his way to Dimitri’s quarters, only to find the prince curled in on himself on his bed, clutching his arms and facing away from the door.

“...Your Highness?”

That seems to get Dimitri’s attention, uncurling just a little bit before inhaling sharply; Dedue can see the tendons in his neck tense for a moment.

“...Dedue? Is that you?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Dedue responds. He’s not sure whether to get closer or to keep his distance. “Are you alright?”

“I am fine,” Dimitri says, “but my old wounds are hurting. They get like this, sometimes, when it’s cold—I’ll be fine once it warms up a little bit.”

“I’ll start a fire,” Dedue says, and before Dimitri can protest, he’s lighting what little firewood is left in the fireplace, using whatever scraps of paper he can find around the room as tinder. He returns to Dimitri’s side, standing by the bed, not quite sure of what to do. The prince still hasn’t turned to face him.

“Thank you for lighting the fire. Please sit,” Dimitri says. “I...would prefer your company than to be left alone again, and I see no reason for you to stand the entire time.”

His hair is still down, a sight now more uncommon than not off of the battlefield; aside from that, he’s yet again in a tunic and breeches, although the set he currently dons are more akin to sleeping clothes than the ones he usually wears out. In these clothes, without all of his armor on and especially curled in on himself like this, he seems so _ small_—more like someone who needs protecting as opposed to the one who does the protecting for others.

(Dedue cannot help but wish that he could protect Dimitri, keep him off the battlefield and shield him from all harm, would sooner give his life than see Dimitri face more danger, but life does not work that way, has never worked that way for the two of them.)

Dedue places himself on the edge of the bed and lets out a huff, slumping forward. He’s more exhausted than he thought; the constant fighting has been grating on him, taking its toll on his body in a way he would not be able to show anyone else, but Dimitri’s been there; he understands, and Dedue trusts that. Still, the prince doesn’t move, and Dedue can’t help but find himself grow more concerned, watching his forcedly even breathing and the way his tunic rises and falls with it.

“Are you sure there is nothing I can do for you, Your Highness?”

Dimitri pauses, and then gestures loosely with his arm. “If you are so inclined, there is a poultice that Mercedes once gave me for days like these tucked beneath the bed. I...hope you will not mind applying it. If that is too much, then—”

“It is not too much, Your Highness,” Dedue says, and he leans over to grab the poultice, placing it beside him on the frame of the bed. “I—might you need help removing your tunic?”

Dimitri pauses, and Dedue could swear that he sees the visible parts of Dimitri’s cheeks go slightly pink. Instead of answering, he pushes himself up, and Dedue finds himself leaning over, catching Dimitri with an arm as he winces and nearly doubles over again in pain; the prince initially reaches to pull his own tunic off, but Dedue finds himself helping, fingers nearly brushing against the prince’s the entire time until the tunic is off and discarded on the floor.

He pauses. “What would be the easiest way to do this?”

Dimitri hesitates again for a second before shifting himself around until his back is facing Dedue, face still shielded from him; Dedue would be lying if he said his curiosity wasn’t eating away at him, but he will not see what the prince desires him not to.

“This is fine,” Dimitri says. “Mercedes said to just massage in a light amount of it across the scars. The poultice is infused with magic or...something like that. You know my tact with holy magic and all that,” he says with a laugh, and Dedue smiles despite himself.

“I am well aware, Your Highness.”

“Oh, she—” Dimitri opens his mouth and then pauses, hands twitching in his lap. “—she said it will hurt worse before it gets better.”

“...understood, Your Highness.”

And so Dedue does as told, dips his fingers into the poultice and then brings his focus to Dimitri’s back, and when he turns his attention to Dimitri’s back, it is far worse than he imagined it to be. Faded pink scars lacerate his back in virtually every imaginable direction, and fresher, redder ones lie on top of them; many of them look deep, almost like stab wounds, from lashes and sword wounds that Dedue wouldn’t even like to think about suffering through.

He decides to start from the top, where the scars are the lightest, and work his way down.

At first, it isn’t too bad; Dimitri barely notices the lighter scars, takes his breaths only a little deeper as Dedue works the poultice into his skin, tries not to feel sick as the scars inflame and flare red for a second before returning to their former silvery-pink color, lying a little flatter on his back and looking a little less violent than they did before. Dedue’s heart still aches to think of Dimitri like this, on the brink of sanity for five years with no one to heal him, taking every wound as it is and doing the best he can to ensure they won’t fester—but every now and then there are wounds that most certainly did, displaying themselves as scars gone hypertrophic after a brush with death that would have been far too close for Dedue’s liking. Those are more common as Dedue’s hands drift further from Dimitri’s neck, closer towards where his vital organs are, a brutal display of every failed attempt at his life—and as he gets to those, Dimitri’s breaths cross from deep to labored, trembling against Dedue’s touch.

“I can stop—”

“No,” Dimitri says, inhaling. Dedue can feel the heat radiating off of his skin. “No, keep going. In the long run...this will be better.”

“Your Highness—”

“_Dedue_,” Dimitri says, warning and tenderness both somehow lacing his tone, and Dedue pauses. There’s so much he wants to say, wants to ask, wants to _ know _ if Dimitri would really rather take a break, or if he presses onward in a form of punishment to himself, if _ everything _ he does is like that—but he doesn’t ask, just continues, a little slower and a little softer and dreading hitting the deepest scars that sit right around his waist.

Still, as he presses lower, fingers working a little harder to press the poultice into scars that are not particularly accepting of it, he notices Dimitri’s hands brought to his face, breaths shaky in a way that can only denote crying, however soft it may be.

“Your Highness—”

No response. He tries again.  
“...Dimitri?”

And that gets the prince’s attention, gets him to stare ahead for a moment instead of at his hands, and only then does Dedue notice the light shaking of his shoulders, of the nearly-silent cries wracking his frame, lithe and fragile without his armor.

“...yes, Dedue?”

“Are you crying?”

If this conversation had occurred mere months ago, Dedue could imagine Dimitri laughing bitterly, wiping his tears and spitting that ones such as him do not deserve such a reprieve, nor such tenderness from others, but Dimitri has changed since then; he laughs, but not bitterly, instead in a soft, loving, maybe somewhat sad way, wipes his tears with his hand.

“Not entirely because of the poultice, although it most certainly does burn,” Dimitri says. “I...cannot stop thinking about how lucky I am, that others have died and instead I am here, having my oldest wounds tended to, being cared for as if I have never done anything wrong at all.”

Dedue smiles, eyes tracing the nape of Dimitri’s neck, wishing he could just see his face, cradle the side of His Highness’ face the way he had once done for him, hold him close and tell him no one deserves to be cared for more than him.

“Could you...turn and face me, Your Hi—Dimitri?”

He almost does, before hesitating a moment, unsurity suddenly flitting across his face.

“My eye—”

“That is not of concern to me—”

“I am not wearing my eyepatch,” he blurts suddenly, and both of them freeze, just for a moment, before Dimitri continues, his panic increasing. “I understand that you probably don’t care, but that side of my face really is—to put it lightly, it is not pretty, and—”

“Your appearance does not matter to me, Dimitri,” Dedue says, and then Dimitri finally turns toward him, avoiding his eyes, his right eye unmasked.

Dimitri starts to say something, hands tightening together in his lap yet again, but Dedue doesn’t hear it—his attention is drawn to what remains of Dimitri’s eye, a mess of tissue and skin healed over it, an amalgamation of skin and scars that never quite seamed together. It isn’t grotesque by any means, but Dedue cannot help but imagine when it was a raw wound, bloodied and red, endlessly more painful than anything that has occurred to him—

—and without thinking, he lifts a calloused hand to the side of Dimitri’s jaw, leaning in and kissing him—

—and against his, Dimitri’s lips are so soft, unmarred by scars, slightly damp from his tears, so _ warm_, everything he has thought about for the past nine years, everything he has ever wanted, makes him forget everything that’s happened to the two of them; and for just a moment, the rest of the world falls away, and it’s just them, connected by a single kiss, an undying warmth that’s been there right from the beginning—

—and then he realizes what he’s doing and pulls away, clapping a hand over his mouth and cursing himself.

“I—Dim—no, Your Highness, I am _ so sorry_—I—”

“Dedue—”

“That was out of line, and if you wish for me to step down from your service—”

“_Dedue_—”

“I can take my leave if you—”

“_Dedue_,” and suddenly Dimitri’s voice is playful, husky, _ low_, and Dimitri’s lips are on his again, with the prince’s hands cupping either side of his face, his fingers dusting over the edge of Dedue’s jawbone before one of them moves to the back of his head and the other traces down to his shoulder, holding him close for just a moment, tensing like if he could, he would never let him go.

Dedue doesn’t dare open his eyes, doesn’t want to ruin this moment, just moves one of his hands over Dimitri’s heart and takes it all in; both of their skyrocketing heart rates, Dimitri’s lips on his, _ again_, all softness and warmth and _love_, transcending physicality in a way that Dedue can’t quite put his finger on—in a moment, it feels like their souls connecting, like Dedue, stripped from his home all those years ago, has finally found it again. It is electric, passionate, exciting, new and timeless at the same time—a first kiss, and yet something that comes so naturally to them that it feels like it’s the only thing they should have done, the only thing they have _ been _ doing all along.

Nine years of love packed into a single moment, and Dedue never wants it to end.

And then it does, all too suddenly, and Dimitri pulls away, red-faced and laughing to himself, face still wet with tears; suddenly, what was sad earlier becomes the sweetest noise in the world to Dedue, and he can’t help but find himself smiling along, wrapping his arms around Dimitri and pulling him tight, relishing in his embrace, in his touch and the warmth that comes along with it. Even with his eye mangled, Dimitri is so _ handsome _ like this, perhaps more so than he was even before; Dedue finds that with every day he’s known Dimitri, he has grown more handsome, more lovable, more regal, more into everything that Dedue feels he has always been. He could not feel more grateful to be at the prince’s side, feels that it is only where he has been meant to be all along. In his heart, he knows he is right: Dimitri is not back to who he was before everything happened. He is better. _ They _ are better.

“I am so lucky,” Dimitri says, resting his head against Dedue’s, “that I somehow have managed to come all this way with you by my side.”

“I would be a luckier man if I could stay here forever.”

“I only ask of you to do so, Dedue.”

Dedue smiles. “I will not fail an order from you.”

At some point, he returns to applying the poultice, because Dimitri is still in pain—and Dimitri still held tightly in his embrace, cries against him, fingers tensely clutching the back of Dedue’s shoulders and nearly digging into his back as Dedue works the poultice back onto his scars, spiderwebs of collagen and tissue that will never quite be the same as they once were. The prince’s sobs against his shoulder pain him so, _ so _ much—so much that after he has finished applying it in a way that is meaningful, he simply wraps his arms back around Dimitri’s waist and merely holds him, holds him like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t, holds him like he can take the weight of the world off of Dimitri’s shoulders and bear it with him instead, holds him and places kiss after kiss against the crook of Dimitri’s neck as if that can ever make up for the pain he experienced while they were apart.

After he’s done, he pulls Dimitri’s shirt back on, kisses him again, and finds himself curled up against him in Dimitri’s bed, his chest to the prince’s back and arms wrapped around his waist, just taking solace in his warmth, the feeling of Dimitri’s heartbeat against his, and the knowledge that whatever happens tomorrow, they will at least have each other.

**Author's Note:**

> KSGNDSKGDS this is my work for dimidue week 2019!!!!! they're really so soft and i love them so much ,,,, after writing flowers i was like oh shit. im lov them and it was such a joy to just crank out 5000 words of them being absolutely so tender !!!
> 
> please look at the work everyone else has been doing for dimidue week also !!!! everyone is so talented and it's been so cool to see what everyone's been making !!
> 
> thank you so much for the support !!! if you want to hang out and yell abt dimidue you can find me on twitter at @jellijeans !!


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